A Little Bright Light
by Rosepeony
Summary: What happens after Red John is gone ... My Blue Heaven... what is it? will Jane find it? ..."So he sits there on the beach,as far away from what he needs as he can get, and he doesn't know why." ... what will lead Jane to his Blue Heaven. Yes it's pretty blue! Will there be light at the end of the tunnel ?
1. Chapter 1

**The first thing I have to say is sorry... for not updating Roll Like a Stuntman for so long. You've all been so great in supporting the story so far and I'm truly ashamed. I have no excuse except for lack of character, but I intend to get rolling again next week... next chapter is half finished.**

**In the meantime I'm posting this little two part story in response to the title and behind the scene pics of My Blue Heaven, 6.09, the episode Simon is directing. I'd really love if they would use the song in the show. I haven't been able to stop dreaming of what an amazing episode this could be.**

**This is what I would love to see. I know it's never in a million years what will happen but I thought I'd put it out there anyway. **

**Please tell me what you think.**

* * *

When whippoorwill call , and evnin' is nigh,

I'll hurry to My Blue Heaven.

You turn to the right, you find a little bright light,

That leads you to My Blue Heaven.

You find a cosy place, fireplace, cosy room,

A little nest that nestles where the roses bloom.

Just Molly and me, and the baby makes three.

Be happy in My Blue Heaven.

* * *

Nothing.

It's ten days and still nothing.

OK ... the fear is gone, the anger too, he no longer looks over his shoulder, hears things that aren t there, sees shadows where there are none.

It should be a relief.

A burden lifted.

He'd even hoped for the smallest glimpse of a future.

Perhaps the promise of new happiness.

Instead there's nothing.

There's still overwhelming guilt of course ... but that doesn't count ... goes without saying ... will always be there.

And apart from that there's nothing.

A void.

A vacuum.

Emptiness.

Red John isn't the only thing that's dead.

...

Since he turned his precious blue Citreon to the right, guided by the little bright light that shone a welcome from the village cantina in the corner of the square, he's been staying in a simple room that he persuaded the owner's wife is perfect. All he needs is a pillow and a blanket and somewhere to place his teacup. He keeps a box each of his two favourite blends next to the cup and its saucer, on the small rustic table beside the bed and he goes down to the bar to ask for truly boiling water whenever he feels the need.

Each day he rises early and goes to sit on the wooden bench in the square, under the shelter of a large exotic tree. He sits there all day casually aware that he's providing the whole population of the village with a new source of entertainment.

He doesn't care that he is the object of much attention and curiosity. He stays locked securely in his invisible cocoon and lets the townsfolk see what they want to see.

He doesn't care.

Because he doesn't feel.

...

The men pass by and stare at him sceptically, grumbling and muttering under their breath. They wonder which of their wives he's here to steal, what his hidden agenda is, why the rich American (all Americans are rich) with the fancy foreign car sits all day in his hippy sarong and his old brown shoes and why he chose this place.

The senoritas wander through the square more frequently these past few days. They gaze at the way the dazzling Mexican sunlight sparkles in his golden hair, at the way when it shines from behind him he seems to wear a halo that reflects the goodness that radiates from his shy smile and pale eyes when they greet him.

'Buenos dias', they say to him seductively, but he merely flashes them that sad eyed, bashfully wistful smile again and gestures to the simple golden band on his finger.

They meet later sometimes, while the children are at school, and gossip about the beautiful enigma who god has dropped into their humdrum lives. They wonder what they have done to deserve such an enticing distraction and decide that he has been hurt by a cruel lover and has come 'to find himself' or 'to drown his sorrows'.

But he wears a ring ... his wife is unfaithful? ... he is hurting?

Maybe they can help. If he sticks around.

...

After breakfast each morning, when he has already been resting on the bench for hours, the children begin to gather around him on their way to school. They have been doing this since he first arrived and their numbers increase daily.

He takes a pack of cards from his shirt pocket or produces a shiny silver coin from behind a young boy's ear. It's polished smooth with all the work it's done. The wide brown eyes of his adoring audience are round as saucers in awe of the simple tricks he shows them.

None of the children is blond or has eyes of azure blue so their presence doesn't hit a nerve. They don't bother to ask awkward questions as long as he keeps them amused. He makes them smile and laugh and he finds he is able to laugh with them.

They can only stay a while or they 'll be in trouble, but they return at lunchtime to listen to his tales of carnivals and circuses and all the places they've never seen (neither has he ... but he doesn't tell them that).

They come back again when school is over for the day and stay til they hear their mothers calling them back to eat.

...

The children see him as happy.

The men think there is something fishy going on.

Only the women see his emptiness.

...

In the evening when the children drift back to their homes, still chattering noisily, and the sun begins to dip, he goes to sit on the beach and waits until its dark and chilly and the moon is casting its dancing silvery filigree patterns on the water.

He listens to the sound of voices and music wafting from the homes and bars. Sometimes it's cheery, sometimes romantic, sometimes plaintive, even sad.

To him it's all the same.

And each night he sits.

Most nights he doesn't think about much, if anything at all.

Some nights he thinks a little more.

And when he thinks, he knows he needs something to make him snap back into reality ... into life.

But she isn't here.

And he isn't there.

Because he walked away, without a word and without looking back.

Because he had no idea what else to do.

Because when the deed was done there was only numbness and panic.

And the urge to run away.

So he sits there on the beach in his emptiness.

As far away from what he needs as he can get.

And he doesn t know why.

So he sits.

It's only when he notices that he's begun to shiver and the cool water is lapping around his feet that he slips his faithful shoes back on (they're nearly eleven years old now) and wanders back to the cosy cantina.

He finds a place in a secluded corner near the men's room (where nobody else wants to sit). He has a plate of whatever is left in the kitchen and he drinks just enough tequila to warm his bones but not his heart. A few nights he drinks enough to numb his senses but sometimes he can't tel the difference anyway. Numb or not it's all the same to him.

Then he retreats upstairs to lie half awake til sunrise announces the birth of another day

... of emptiness.

* * *

**Final part of this story probably on Friday and next installment of Roll Like a Stuntman next week.**

**Thanks for reading. **

**X**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well wouldn't you know it ... it's going to be a three parter! **

**Thanks so much for the great response to the first chapter ... let me know what you think after this one ... I'm not completely happy with it ... a little bit over the top I think, but I loved pouring my heart into it. I hope you'll forgive my indulgence!**

**I forgot to disclaim before so just so you all know I own nothing of TM and not one word of the lyrics to My Blue Heaven.**

* * *

The eleventh day is furnace hot. Everything about it is intense. The sun blazes so bright it hurts to see, the sky is a deeper blue than he has ever known, the air completely still, every sound sharper and the ocean is eerily still.

This day is different.

It makes him feel.

It makes him nervy. Agitated. Frantic.

He can feel the sun burning his skin, colouring him RED, singeing his hair, turning it slowly paler, more golden, like an angel.

It feels like punishment.

He leaves the square when the children have grudgingly, in twos and threes, wandered off to school and he walks down to the beach.

There are few other people there, but few is still too many.

He walks until the little town is out of view and he is alone, and he sits down in the soft sand at the top of the beach, in the semi-shade of the only scrubby excuse for a tree that he can find.

He lays his shoes down beside him and sits with his knees drawn up to his chest, arms encircling them protectively.

He watches the pale grains of sand sliding between his toes as he curls and relaxes them rhythmically, it's like the silk of Angela's favourite ivory nightdress slipping through his fingers ... the one she wore so that he could have the pleasure of undressing her on their wedding night.

The searing brightness of the sun makes staring at the trickling sand more painful than fascinating, though it doesn't dawn on him that he hasn't blinked in minutes, until the moisture brimming in his eyes makes the action an involuntary one.

He closes his lids slowly and resting his forehead on his knees, he curls inward on himself, pulling his arms ever tighter around his legs.

He sits like this, remembering the feeling of silk, smooth and liquid against his skin, and her skin warm and soft and sexy. And he recalls the contented murmurs of undying love and the promises they made that night.

It's a love that still lives on.

And still it's overwhelming.

He feels as if his head might burst and all the tears he's held inside, for all the time they haven't had, might just flood out to mingle with the waters of the mighty ocean that shimmers beyond the sand he sits on.

Perhaps it's only the sun boiling his brain that's making him feel this way today.

He's been able to cope before.

He hasn't felt a thing.

So eventually he straightens himself up, blinks his eyes open again and peers blearily, out across the wide expanse of undulating beach to the deep blue of the sea and the sky above it.

The mistiness of his unshed tears and the blinding glare of sunlight bouncing silvery reflections off the water make the sky meld with the sea, the horizon non existent and the world seems only a vision of shimmering blueness.

It's not a solid thing.

Not water and sky. No fishes and birds. No boats and fishermen.

The whole world is soft.

A glittering blue envelope of calm.

Total calm.

His arms wrap around his knees again and he rocks very gently back and forth, gazing out into the blue and at the golden glow of the sun that hangs suspended there.

It hangs there warm and inviting and it beckons him, like the little bright that led him to the cantina.

Find a little bright light, that leads you to my blue heaven.

He thinks he hears the breeze that wasn't there only moments ago and it calls to him.

Just Angie and me, and Charlotte makes three.

Be happy in my blue heaven.

The breeze calls to him.

And a decision is made.

The die is cast.

He rises slowly to his feet and makes his way, shoes dangling by their laces from his hand, back along the beach. He speaks to nobody, acknowledges no greetings. He walks straight past the children congregating to meet him for their lunchtime session in the corner of the bustling square and he goes directly to his room above the bar.

There he gathers up his few belongings. He shoves the clothes he arrived in, a few pairs of underpants, his towel and some toiletries into the bag he brought with him. Then he sits on the edge of the bed and picks up the four photographs that he's kept displayed on the table next to the two boxes of tea and the turquoise blue cup and saucer.

He sits and looks impassively at each picture in turn for a few moments, before placing them into his wallet beside the little cash he has and the one credit card he'd bothered to bring with him.

He leaves his car keys on the table with the tea, picks up the crockery and goes down to the bar where the owner's wife is busy readying herself for the busy midday meal session.

"Here" he says, "A present for you. Look after it."

He places the cup and saucer on the counter in front of the slightly bemused woman. She quickly musters a warm smile for the strange American.

"Thank you for everything," he tells her solemnly and before she can reply he is gone.

His car is parked in a side street behind the square, it's not been touched since he arrived and he's relieved to see that the less desirable members of the community have been able to resist the temptation to deface it's beautiful paintwork. He's grateful for that, although he reflects that it doesn't really matter.

The door is unlocked. He slips into the driver's seat and sits quietly for a moment, spinning his ring around his finger with his thumb, then he sighs sadly and opens the glove box, slipping the wallet containing his photos in alongside the few old receipts and bits and pieces that have collected there.

Just as he is about to slam the box shut (it always did need a firm touch) he thinks again and retrieves the wallet to take one last look at the two pictures that sit side by side on the top.

They are both snapshots of himself in happier times, but both with different women.

He plants a tender kiss on each of them then hides them away again.

He climbs out of the car, runs his hand fondly along the pearly paintwork of its roof and walks away, not looking back.

.

By the time he returns to his spot on the beach it is mid afternoon. The sun is still high in the sky and there are a few people about this time. He settles down, flat on his back on the soft bed of fine sand, he closes his eyes and waits for them to go away.

He doesn't care how long he has to wait.

He has all day.

He lies there until the sun is beginning to go down.

He's been there under the sun's scorching rays so long he can feel his skin is badly burnt. Frankly it's a miracle no one's dared to disturb him to urge him to get some sunscreen for his lilywhite skin.

He doesn't blame them for not bothering.

It's clear he's perhaps 'to be avoided'. Not altogether 'with it'.

But now, at last, he is alone.

He feels a wonderful sense of inevitability, certainty and calmness as he takes off his shoes (they're full of sand this time because he walked along the beach with them on). He places them down carefully, with reverence. They look lonely, having nothing to keep them company, so he strips off his shirt, folds it equally carefully and lays it down next to the shoes.

That's better.

He turns deliberately and strides slowly across the sand to the waters edge, the way his feet sink in its soft warmth makes the effort it takes to make each step seem like a decision of its own.

Each stride is one more confirmation of his resolution.

But each stride is easier as that sand becomes damper and firmer.

At last he feels the soothing tickle of cool salt water as it washes in between his toes, and he lets his eyes drift to the hot centre of the setting sun. It's hovering, only barely above the horizon now and the fuzzy line where sea meets sky is burnished bronze and copper.

The sun and its friend the sea call him on, inviting him deeper.

He pushes slowly forward.

The water laps fondly around his thighs, cooling and relieving his sunburn, teasing a serene smile onto his face.

He appreciates the irony.

He moves more slowly now.

The water's deeper, more resistant.

Is it not ready to accept him?

Almost half of the glowing orb has given itself up to the sea now and copper has grown to crimson, the extremities of sea and sky purplish, struggling not to relinquish their hold on blueness.

But crimson triumphs until it sinks into the ocean and gives way to inkiness.

Now midnight blue is swirling around his neck and shoulders and he can no longer feel the sand beneath his feet.

He searches to see the light that guides him, but there's only a hazy glow of warmth along the line where heaven and earth meet and although he doesn't believe he hopes all the same that they'll be there waiting for him.

Somewhere beyond that tiny bit of lightness.

He closes his eyes and lets himself go.

Lets his body surrender to the ocean.

* * *

**Yes I know that was pretty sad and a bit of a cliffie but ... well you'll just have to read when I post part three ... probably not until Monday. Until then there is always 6.06 and it's beautiful sunset.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry! **

** I said Monday didn't I? But then Sunday night's CBS fiasco happened and then those stupid post RJ spoilers and frankly when's a girl supposed to write with all that voting to do! **

** So here it is ... I have ignored the spoilers and simply written one way I think things could have panned out in the immediate aftermath. **

** Many thanks to all my reviewers for last chapter ... I know it's pretty downbeat to say the least, but have faith ... don't you have to go through the darkness to come into the light. **

** Enjoy! ... and don't forget to vote TM for PCA.**

* * *

It's thirteen days.

Unlucky for some.

Thirteen days since Red John fell.

Thirteen days since the entire California law enforcement system imploded.

... and twelve days since he fled.

Half the CBI hierarchy is behind bars and the rest is under investigation. Even the feds are poisoned with the stigma of the Tyger.

She sits on a random chair in the almost empty bullpen (there are few stragglers hurriedly finishing incomplete paperwork to cover their backs) and she allows herself a wry smile.

What if there is nobody with an unblemished reputation to carry out the enquiries?

Maybe JJ, if nobody else is privy to the contents of the Tupperware box.

Her watery smile almost manages to grow.

... Jane would love that ... if he were here ...

But he isn't.

... and she's very, very afraid he won't be coming back.

The old brown couch is empty ... she can't allow herself to sit on it, with its ingrained fragrance of Jane and the memories it invokes. Just the feel of its supple leather makes her hand recoil; it's saturated with her partner's warmth, his humanity, his humour. And his pain.

The creamy couch in her office is the same, with its carefully chosen, not too girly cushions and the blue grey throw he slept under the night he burnt the Red John files. She can't sit on it.

When she sits at her desk she can turn her back on the couch he bought her just because he could.

Thank God.

But still she can feel him lying there behind her, pretending to be asleep. She can feel the cogs whirring in that brilliant brain of his.

So she avoids her office and works at any empty desk out in the bullpen, trying to untangle the mess that is left in the wake of Jane and Red John.

She trys to work, and for a while she does.

Then she just sits.

She feels ...

... she doesn't know what she feels, sitting alone, staring into another cold cup of coffee.

Every sip she drinks is tainted with an extra bitterness that no amount of milk and sugar can disguise.

She thinks perhaps a cup of his tea, carefully brewed, the way he likes (liked), will bring some comfort; she can pretend he's there, just holed up in the attic. He'll be waiting patiently for her to go and rap on the door and drag him downstairs (he's waiting just because it annoys her and it's part of their little ritual).

Behind the cupboard door, the Oolong sits there on the shelf, right next to the Lapsang Souchong, but she can't even bring herself to open the box.

And there's a gap on the shelf. Next to the tea.

He's not coming back ...

... his cup is gone.

The matching red one is there.

It makes her feel like throwing up.

So she throws it in the bin.

It doesn't help.

Just makes an ugly noise that echoes around the bullpen.

She escapes; walks away quietly, calmly to the elevator and waits, emotionless and rigid.

When the doors close behind her she hits the button to hold the world at bay for just as long as ... as long as it takes her game face to return.

Who cares?

Who knows?

Anymore.

She cries for the first time since he left.

And it's a flood.

A sobbing, quivering, angry, painful flood.

She feels, all at once, furious, indignant, hurt, betrayed, resigned ... any negative emotion contained within the pages of the psychologist's little hand book of human feelings.

Her tears embody each of those feelings tenfold.

The pain rips into her soul and tears her heart apart.

It's been contained for far too long.

And yet, for all that overflowing, for all that raging torrent, there is still a gaping hole; a pit of nothingness that her anger only serves to paper over. It only takes a pinprick, a sideways glance at a brown leather couch or the imagined sound of the soft shoe shuffle of worn out soles, to slash the paper open and send her tumbling into that lonely void where he is meant to be.

Where he once was ... but isn't.

Because he's somewhere in Mexico.

Trying to find peace at the bottom of the ocean.

.

.

There's a moment when the temptation to give up living has to overcome the inherent strength of the human (animal) instinct to survive.

A moment when the desire to die has to fight against the will to live.

In that precious moment a tiny voice, somewhere deep inside, starts insisting.

Maybe it's fear. Maybe cowardice.

Maybe love.

_... I think you'd choose life..._

_ ... there's people who care about you, who need you ..._

But the water's already filling his lungs.

Making him cough.

He's a swimmer...

Making him panic.

... a swimmer ... but not that good.

Dragging him under, into its darkest blue heaven.

_ ...I think you'd choose life ..._

There are some things you just can't fix.

_...you're being selfish and childish ..._

_ ...people who need you ..._

And now he's trying.

Really trying.

But his head won't stay above the water.

He's really trying.

He thrusts his arms up, out of the water, outstretched, up as far as he can reach ... and the bubbles rush up to the surface past them ... ... ... his breath on it's way out.

And there's nothing more that he can do.

And the bubbles keep on rising to the surface ...

.

.

There are some things you just can't fix.

And sometimes it takes the intervention of fate to fix the unfixable.

A third party ...

... or two teenage lovers taking a romantic moonlit stroll along a deserted beach.

The lovers settle underneath the only poor excuse for a tree above the long expanse of sand. They sit, arms lovingly wound around each other, saying nothing; embracing the privilege of this time together, alone.

Unaware that kismet has sent them to this place, on this particular sultry night, they enjoy each other's company and silently watch the strange American wading slowly into the sea.

The moonlight is shimmering silvery gold off his yellow hair. It's how they know it's him and they can see his old brown shoes sitting lonely and discarded alongside his tatty shirt, lying half way down the beach.

And, bewitched, they watch him wading deeper still.

Until only his head is visible.

Then they see him waving.

They wave back.

And he keeps on waving.

And disappearing.

Still waving.

Until they realise ...

... not waving but drowning ...

.

* * *

**I had intended this to be a longer and final chapter, but I have decided that it needs to have a break at this point ... so don't give up; just hang in there until tonight or maybe Monday for the conclusion ... will the young lovers be in time to save our hero or will he find his Blue Heaven at the bottom of the ocean.**

**.**


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